Burn With Me
by The Writer's Life
Summary: Sherlock knelt on the floor of the dining room, he could feel his knees bruising, but he didn't dare move. The assassin's hand was on the trigger of the gun that was to his head, and he knew that they would be all too happy to shoot.


**Hello, everyone! It's been a tiring week, but what better way to wind down than a new story? I think it's time for a Sherlock story - inspiration has hit! This is a scenario that is inspired by a gorgeous piece of fanart I saw, and plus, I've had this concept in my head for awhile. Anyways, enough of my rambling - enjoy, and please review. Hope everyone is doing good in the new school year :)**

**Burn With Me**

_Present..._

"John," Sherlock rasped, blood dribbling down his lip. "John, just go." As he knelt on the floor of the dining room, he could feel his knees bruising, but he didn't dare move. The assassin's hand was on the trigger of the gun that was to his head, and he knew that they would be all too happy to shoot. He coughed, and as his entire frame shook, he could see John step forward. "No, don't!" he hissed. John stopped abruptly. "Go."

John shook his head and kept his gun steady. He looked pained. "I'm not leaving you, Sherlock. Not again. This is my fault."

_Two hours ago..._

"Sherlock, you can't avoid us forever!" John shouted at Sherlock. It was more like in the general direction of Sherlock, seeing as that the detective was stretched out on the couch, his hands steepled at his chin. "Sherlock, Mary has been asking about you."

"I am thinking, John," Sherlock muttered, rolling over so that his face was turned into the cushions. His blue dressing gown was a crumpled mess, and John could tell that Sherlock had not moved in at least twenty-four hours.

"It's just dinner! Come on." John grew quiet. Sherlock had been like this for the two months after he had gotten off the plane after Moriarty's return. Even though there had been no word from Moriarty, the detective was moody, unreachable, and even more antisocial than usual, and at the moment, John wasn't up for dealing with Sherlock's issues.

"Dinner turns into the evening, and then it's all boring talk, talk, talk," Sherlock groaned, his baritone voice muffled by the couch. "The skull would be better."

"For me?" John had hoped not to have to pull that card, but the need had arisen. "I could use some of your insults and deductions."

Mary had lost the baby a a month and a half ago. She had miscarried, and the past week had been a living hell for John. He still didn't feel as if he could trust her wholly, but the grief had brought them closer. However, he needed Sherlock. His best friend had made himself scarce ever since John had told him about the child, and John hated it.

Sherlock rolled over, and without another word, he got up from the couch and strode into his bedroom. John rolled his eyes and sat down in his chair. Sherlock had put the chair back in its rightful place for the times they were up until dawn puzzling over a challenging case. After less than five minutes, Sherlock emerged from his room, donning a pair of black dress pants, a purple shirt with a black coat over it, and of course, his signature black coat.

"Just this once, John. We aren't making a habit of this." He walked past John and out the door. John just smiled at Sherlock's retreating form and grabbed his own coat.

_Present..._

"What did I ever do to you? What did I do?!" John shouted at the assasin. They smirked, and Sherlock could tell that this was breaking John, even though the hand with his gun was perfectly steady. Sherlock could tell that the assasin was hurting, too, but they were doing a better job of keeping their feelings concealed.

"This isn't about you, John," the assasin said in a silky voice. "This is about what _he _will do." The assasin nudged Sherlock's head with the gun, and he couldn't help a little cry. He watched as John stepped forward agressively.

"John!" Sherlock choked out. "Go, now. She only wants me, but she'll kill you."

"I'm warning you," John began, completely ignoring what Sherlock had said, "I won't lose him again. I will shoot."

"But not before I shoot him. And I know you would do anything to keep that from happening. Isn't that correct, Mr. Watson?"

_One hour ago..._

"Mary!" John hollered as he unlocked the door to their home. He could smell the aroma of chicken in the air, and although he knew Sherlock wouldn't eat, it would still feel nice to sit down to a proper meal with him. In a way, he missed the evenings with Sherlock. With Mary, it was safe and proper, but with Sherlock, he never knew when an experiment would blow up or a case would come up and they would be getting shot at.

Mary bustled out from the kitchen, her eyes worried and her face slightly flushed. "John!" she smiled, and then glanced over his shoulder. "Oh, Sherlock, how nice to see you!" She rushed over and hugged the detective. John watched as Mary wrapped his arms around Sherlock and the thin man stiffened.

"You were on the phone," Sherlock said, staring down at Mary. John rolled his eyes. It really was too much to ask for Sherlock not to deduce his wife. With Mary, he found that he usually didn't want to know. "You keep flexing your left elbow as if it was sore, and your left ear is red. You have a burn on your hand from where you were cooking the food as you spoke. Who were you speaking with, Mary?"

"Sherlock, you think too much!" Mary said, playfully hitting Sherlock with the towel. John noticed that the smile on Mary's face didn't match her eyes, and Sherlock looked aloof. "I was on the phone with Janine. She was asking after you, you know." Mary went back to the kitchen, and John turned to Sherlock.

"What was all that for? She's allowed to talk on the phone," John whispered almost defensively.

"Merely some observations, John -"

"You don't trust her. You _told _me to trust her, that she didn't want to hurt us."

"Ah, about that," Sherlock said.

"You didn't tell me everything."

"Well, I told you I was thinking!"

"Not about Mary! Don't you think you should have said, 'John, your wife STILL can't be trusted'?" John's voice had graduated to a loud, angry whisper, and Sherlock tried to signal for him to be quiet.

Mary popped her head out from the kitchen. "Everything alright, boys?" she questioned. Her voice was playful, but now that John was listening for it, he could hear concern in her tone.

"Excellent, Mary. John and I are just going to step outside for a moment. Just started smoking again." Sherlock strode outside, and John followed suit, casting an exasperated look at Mary for the sake of appearances. He shut the door behind him, and looked at Sherlock.

"What the bloody hell is going on here, Sherlock?" John hissed, pacing around wildly.

"John, just listen. You have to listen to me." Sherlock sounded panicked. "She's dangerous. We can't trust her, so we can't talk here."

"Oh, yes we can. This is my wife!"

_Present..._

"Please. Let him go," John whispered. Sherlock looked down at the ground. He didn't want to hear John beg like this. He was so much better than grovelling. "You don't have to do this."

The assasin scoffed. "You think your begging will do any good? He has ruined everything too many times."

"He's all I have left." Sherlock's head jerked up in surprise, only to find tears in John's eyes. "You have to leave me something."

"You would have something. Join me. Join us."

Sherlock started to panic. What if John did join the assasin? He didn't care about death - he just cared about John betraying him.

"Never." John's voice rang out hard and clear, and this time, he was looking directly at Sherlock. "Please. _Mary._"

_Fifty-five minutes ago..._

"John, this isn't the best idea to discuss this right here," Sherlock said hurriedly. "She's right here, and -"

"Talk." John's tone was murderous.

"John, I haven't trusted her for a long time."

"So you've let me _sleep in the same bed _with someone you knew was dangerous?"

"It was imperitive that you trusted her. I needed to keep her close -""

"So you used me? You didn't give me a warning?"

"John, shut up. Let me speak." Sherlock inhaled. "The only reason she didn't kill me is that she's working for Moriarty. I told you the truth - she didn't mean to kill me. Moriarty still has games for me, he doesn't want me dead. It was a warning. Moriarty is alive, John, and now, he wants me dead. Mary has probably been with him from the beginning. I have theories on how he faked his death, and most of them include your wife." Sherlock looked pained. "You aren't safe any more. I've been trying to think how to get you out of there, because you have to get out of there. She wants me dead."

"That isn't going to happen," John scoffed.

"Then she'll kill you, too. Moriarty doesn't care," Sherlock said flatly.

"Well, I'll just leave."

"She'll shoot you."

"I'll arrange a 'kidnapping' with Mycroft and disappear."

"Moriarty has men everywhere. He'll send her after you. She's his top assasin, her name is -"

"Moran. Mary Moran," a smooth female interrupted. The door whipped open, and John was staring into the stony face of his wife. "Hands up, step inside, don't holler." She was pointing a gun at them, and John felt the bottom of his stomach drop. He had to protect Sherlock.

"Oh, would anyone around here let me finish a sentence?" Sherlock drawled sarcastically. John turned his head towards his best friend, just in time to see Mary smash the butt of the gun against Sherlock's face. He fell soundlessly to the ground, blood dripping from his lip. John watched helplessly as Mary grabbed Sherlock's collar and dragged him inside. John followed them inside, and felt as if he was going to be sick as he watched Mary pull Sherlock up to a kneeling position. She pressed the gun against Sherlock's temple. It pained John to see Sherlock flinch and let out a little hiss of discomfort.

"Now, John, let's hear you beg for Sherlock's precious little life," Mary hissed.

"Mary," John said, his voice only shaking slightly. He breathed in deeply, and then produced a gun from his coat pocket. He pointed the gun at Mary. "Let him go."

"No."

John laughed humorlessly. "Well, we'll be here for awhile."

_Present..._

"Mary, please. I'm getting tired of this. It's been an hour. What are you waiting for?" Sherlock could hear notes fear in John's voice. There was pain in his jaw and head, and his knees were numb from kneeling on the dining room floor. He had tried formulating escape routes, but all of them involved John getting shot.

"Then leave," Mary said calmly. "If you're tired, get out of here."

"Yes, John, for once, listen to her," Sherlock added desperately.

"Oh, be quiet." Mary hit Sherlock with the butt of the gun, and Sherlock fell to the ground. He felt blood streaming from his forehead. He heard John scream, and knew that he would rush for him if he didn't get up, so he pushed himself from the ground.

"I'm alright," Sherlock gasped. He drew himself to his knees, and despite seeing black spots whenever he moved, managed to stay upright. The detective focused in on John, never breaking eye contact. He needed strength right now, the strength to break Mary, and the only way he could gain that strength was to focus in on John. John, who would stand there all night to save him.

"Now, this isn't interesting any more," Mary hissed. "John. Just leave. I don't want to shoot you." Sherlock detected a slight tremor in her voice, and he smiled to himself.

"But you see, Miss Moran, if I may, if you shoot me, you'll be hurting John, too," Sherlock started. John shot him a strange look, but Sherlock ignored him. "He has lost everyone in his life. If you shoot me, do you think that he'll stay with you, without the child, without me? What will he do?" Sherlock was almost shouting now, and he saw John flinch. He knew that these were all the things John was thinking but wouldn't say, and he hated that he had to say them aloud.

Sherlock could see that John was starting to catch on. Something clicked in his eyes. "That's right. Mary, if you shoot him, you might as well shoot me on the spot, because if you don't -"

"John, I don't want you dead!" Mary interjected.

"If you don't, I'll just shoot myself," John finished. He calmly put his own gun at his temple, and knelt down so that he could look Sherlock in the eyes. "As soon as you pull the trigger and kill him, I will kill myself."

"And why would I care?" Mary tried to sound confidant, but Sherlock noticed that her voice wobbled.

"Because you love him, Mary. Despite your best efforts, you love him," Sherlock stated factually, without any emotion. He was finding it more and more difficult to look at John like this. One slip of the finger, and he would be dead.

"And killing him would kill me." John said this quietly, barely loud enough for Sherlock to hear. "Mary. Leave me something."

Sherlock held his breath and tried to stay steady. He could feel Mary's indecision in the way the gun was pressed up against his head with less force and the trembling in her hand. Suddenly, the pressure against his head was gone, and Sherlock breathed again. He stumbled to his feet to face Mary, but John stayed on the ground.

"Just this once, Sherlock. But only for him." Mary nodded at the ground. "For John. Next time, It'll just be me and you," She pocketed the revolver, and glared at Sherlock. "One day, you'll burn, Sherlock Holmes. And everyone around you will die in the flames." She strode out the door, and the detective was all too happy to let her go. If it meant insuring John's safety, even if it was just for the moment. Sherlock's collapsed onto his hands and knees, expecting a moment of solitude to collect himself, but instead, he heard the sound of a gun clattering to the ground. Before he had the chance to look up, he was pulled into a bone-crunching embrace.

"Sherlock," John whispered. He pulled back, and took Sherlock's face in his hands, tracing a finger over the cut on Sherlock's forehead. Sherlock could feel the room spinning. Mary _Moran_. He should've figured it out ages ago, he never should have let it get this far. He had heard about Moriarty's top assasin and hadn't been able to find the person. He should have known and protected John better. Why had he used him as bait? How could he have underestimated... everything?

"Sherlock, look at me," John said gently. The doctor turned Sherlock's head forward, and Sherlock looked John in the eye.

"You meant it," he rasped. "If she had shot me, you would've shot yourself. The safety was off, and your hand was on the trigger. Why?"

John lowered Sherlock to the floor. "Your eyes are unfocused. Concussion," he announced softly. "I'll call Lestrade for an ambulance."

"Why, John?"

"Because you're injured, and despite what you say -"

"No. Why would you have killed yourself if she had killed me?"

"You're cleverer than the rest, Sherlock, I'm sure you can figure it out."

"You said you would have lost everything."

"I would have! Damn it, Sherlock, you almost die at least once a week. Have you ever thought about what I would do? Especially now. I've lost the baby, I've lost my wife, and you! You, jumping off of rooftops and faking your death without even a word. How did you think I felt then? How do you think I would feel now, watching you die by a woman I brought into our life?"

Sherlock was left speechless. He began to try and sit up, but John pushed him back down.

"No. You are going to lay there until the ambulance comes and you will be happy about it." The doctor's voice trembled. "I can't believe... Mary."

"She probably been with Moriarty from the beginning," Sherlock admitted. "I was going to tell you, but..."

"Not when she was right behind the door." John sighed, and dropped his head.

"Don't blame yourself for this, John," Sherlock said. The words felt foreign in his mouth. He had never tried to alleviate blame before by lying. This was so clearly John's fault. If he had just waited until they were alone, Mary wouldn't have felt the need to hold Sherlock at gunpoint. They could have dealt with her on their own terms. However, he couldn't bring himself to say this aloud.

"What will we do when she comes back?" John whispered. "Sherlock, I can't..."

"You won't get rid of me that easily," Sherlock found himself blurting out. "We will beat her John, and Moriarty."

"Of course we will." John leaned down and kissed Sherlock's forehead, and Sherlock felt his head being lifted into John's lap. He smiled slightly as John brushed a sweaty curl from his forehead, but a war was raging in his head.

_One day, you'll burn, Sherlock Holmes. And everyone around you will die in the flames. _The words sent shivers of fear through the detective. Moriarty still had plans, and Mary played a role in them, as did John. Their respective 'plus-ones' in their little games. It wasn't the thought of being 'burned' by Moriarty that scared him.

It was the fact that one day, he was going to burn, and John would also burn, no matter what he did.

"What is it, Sherlock?" John asked softly. Sherlock looked up at the doctor, and was filled with a rush of warmth. John's eyes were caring and soft, slightly reddened by unshed tears. The creases in his forehead were more pronounced with worry. His dark blonde hair stuck up in all directions, giving him the appearance of a young, unruly child. Sherlock could hear the love in his voice, and it hurt. It hurt, because Sherlock loved John, too, but if they were together, John would be in twice the danger he was already in from just being friends with the detective.

"Head hurts," he mumbled noncomittedly.

_I will burn you. I will burn the heart out of you._ Sherlock closed his eyes. _Oh, John. She didn't want to kill you. Not now, anyways._

_ Moriarty has bigger plans for us._

**Ta-daaa! This kind of manifested, and the plot changed so many times. This was the natural ending of the event for me, but if anyone wants a sequel, I can try to dream some 'bigger plans' up. Thanks for reading, and reviews are loved. **


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